Into The Thrill

A person whose name and face were barely memorable knew Haewon’s recent activities with surprising accuracy. Words circulated, looping endlessly, spreading, and eventually even reaching someone as unremarkable as this. Taeshin’s death would be passed around in the same way. It would be carried along, pushed around, eventually fading, colliding, and finally disappearing. In the end, that was the extent of its worth.
The reason Haewon didn’t want to sit and drink with his former classmate wasn’t because he had no intention of mourning Taeshin. Rather, it was because he didn’t want to be put in a position where, just because he had been slightly closer to Taeshin than the others, he would have to defend him, make excuses for his death, or explain anything on his behalf.

"How much do you get paid for that? The album work. Do they give you running royalties? I heard you sold a hundred thousand copies. Must've been a huge hit."
"Just enough to live on."
"Come on, don’t be so tight-lipped. What’s the big secret?"

At that moment, the food arrived. A disposable bowl of yukgaejang, a plastic plate with dry slices of boiled pork that looked like they had been sitting out for a while, along with kimchi, rice cakes, and seasoned skate.
The man mixed his rice into the yukgaejang and swallowed it down like water. Haewon clutched his ankle, which was trying to slip out of his posture, pulling it back in. The man chewed loudly, stuffing his mouth, revealing grains of rice rolling around inside. It was enough to kill Haewon’s already nonexistent appetite. His brows creased slightly.
"By the way, they said Taeshin committed suicide? Do you know why? Or is it just that artists tend to be mentally complicated?"

"Maybe."
"Did he study art? Painting?"
He had studied sculpture. He hadn't shown much talent, nor much interest in it. He had chosen sculpture simply to graduate from a prestigious high school and a decent university. It was likely his parents' decision, not his own. For those with money, art was the easiest path—while for those without it, it was a nearly unattainable dream. The things Haewon did were merely a means of appearing cultured for the wealthy.

"Sculpture."
"Ah, right."
If someone had come to the funeral, they must have had some connection to Taeshin, yet this person didn't even know his major. That meant there was no real bond, no recollections worth reminiscing about.

As Haewon stared at him indifferently, his classmate suddenly straightened up, looking around. It was Taeshin’s father.
The man hurried over, bowing deeply, shaking hands with exaggerated solemnity. His face, already morose, looked on the verge of spilling dramatic, heavy tears.
"Sir, I have no words… I’m Kim Junghwan, Taeshin’s junior from high school."

"I see. Thank you for coming."
"Please, sir, there’s no need for thanks. I regret not keeping in touch more often, using my business as an excuse. I should have checked in on him. It’s my fault. I was just going to finish one last thing and then meet up with him, but I never imagined… I never thought he’d leave us so suddenly…"
Taeshin’s father, unable to respond, merely patted Junghwan’s tightly clasped hands, overwhelmed with grief. Anyone who had lost a family member in such a way would probably feel the same. But the emotions on his face weren’t grief—they were regret and remorse.

"So, you’re in distribution, right?"
"Yes, sir. It’s an up-and-coming direct-import business. We have a solid membership base."
"Let’s have a serious talk about it sometime."
"Thank you, sir."

He gave Junghwan’s shoulder a few firm pats before stepping away. As he walked, his gaze briefly locked onto Haewon’s face. Haewon didn’t move from where he sat. The man stared at him for a long moment before another mourner approached him, shifting his attention.
Junghwan returned to his seat, a smile still plastered on his face—something that didn’t quite fit the role of a grieving guest.
Taeshin and his father had never had a good relationship. Taeshin once confided in Haewon that his father had probably realized his son’s sexual orientation.

Taeshin always fell for straight men. And once he liked someone, he fell deeply.
Maybe Junghwan had been one of those men.
Taeshin, spoiled as the only son, had been naive, completely oblivious to being used. He always believed that those he adored also adored him in return.

Even though Haewon had been fully aware that Taeshin was being taken advantage of, he had never offered any real warnings.
After all, the family was wealthy. If a desperate person in need of money took advantage of Taeshin, what did it matter?
If he thought of it as charity—helping the needy—then it was beneficial for both sides. Taeshin got to give, and the poor bastards got to receive.

When framed that way, it became much easier to accept.
"You’re not going to greet him?"
"Why would I? I’ve never even met him before. Today’s the first time."

"Then why are you here? Didn’t you come to see the chairman?"
"……"
Junghwan’s gaze turned questioning, as if genuinely puzzled.

Haewon was the only one here who had truly been thinking about Taeshin and his death, the only one sifting through memories of him.
And Haewon hated that.
Even in death, Taeshin was being exactly as pathetic as he had been in life.

The way he had died, the way he had left things behind—it was just as messy, just as needy.
Haewon felt utterly sick of him.
But at least this was the last of it.

Now that Taeshin was dead, their relationship was finally over.
Junghwan, clearly planning to stay the night in hopes of another conversation with Taeshin’s father, uncapped a bottle of soju.
He poured some into Haewon’s empty glass before handing him the bottle, a silent expectation that Haewon would reciprocate.

Haewon stood up.
"I have to go."
"Already? The chairman will be more free later when the crowd thins out."

Clearly, his mind was still on business.
Haewon had no intention of lingering. He picked up his coat without hesitation.
Junghwan called out as he turned away.

"Let’s keep in touch."
"Sure."
A meaningless exchange, both knowing it wouldn’t happen.

Just as he was about to leave, someone entered the room.
Tall, exuding an overwhelming presence—perhaps because of his black clothing. He was striking enough to make those near the entrance falter mid-step.
The man handed over an envelope of condolence money before walking directly toward the mourning room.

Haewon, who had been moving, suddenly stilled.
His gaze followed the man.
He knew that face.

Where had he seen him before?
Ah. The hotel swimming pool.
The man who had picked up the swimsuit Haewon had carelessly left behind in the shower booth.

What was he doing here?
Did he know Taeshin’s father?
He couldn’t have known Taeshin.

Someone as vain as Taeshin would never have been quiet about having someone who looked like that around him.
Haewon stared at the man with curiosity.
He wasn’t a celebrity, nor a public figure, yet every pair of eyes in the room was drawn to him.

Including Haewon’s.
The man seemed familiar with Taeshin’s father.
Bowing politely, he offered his condolences.

Haewon, watching his back, turned away.
∞ ∞ ∞
Haewon left the funeral hall and began walking aimlessly.

The distance between the funeral hall and his apartment was only ten minutes by car.
He shoved his hands deep into his coat pockets.
Tightly wrapping the scarf Choi had given him, he covered half of his face.

Even with his shoulders hunched, the creeping chill of early winter seeped in through his clothes.
Since it was a ten-minute drive, Haewon figured it would take about thirty minutes on foot. He thought, Why not walk for once? But within five minutes, he realized his mistake. Still, stubbornness took over, and even as empty taxis passed by, he ignored them and kept walking.
Taeshin’s death had long since evaporated from his mind.

By the time he arrived in front of his officetel, his jaw was trembling from the cold. Haewon stepped off the elevator and finally loosened the scarf he had tightly wrapped around himself. As he walked down the hallway toward his door, he came to a slow stop—someone was waiting there.
"Why haven’t you been answering your phone?"
"……."

"I called so many times I started thinking something had happened. The moment I thought you might be in an accident, my heart dropped. No matter how much I tried, I couldn’t get through, so I started wondering… maybe this time, it wasn’t you who was alive."
It wasn’t Haewon who had died. It was someone else.
"How did you find this place?"

Standing in front of his officetel was Kim Jaemin, the director who was supposed to be in L.A. Instead, here he was, in Korea, standing at Haewon’s door.
"If I wanted to find out, there was no way I wouldn’t. Did you shut your phone off completely?"
"No. I just turned it off."

"Let’s go inside. It’s cold."
Even Jaemin was shivering slightly. Haewon, still holding his loosened scarf in one hand, stepped closer. Jaemin motioned toward the door lock with his chin, signaling Haewon to open it.
"It’s not exactly polite to show up at someone’s home uninvited, especially when I never gave you my address."

"Are you saying you’re kicking me out?"
"Did I ask you to come?"
"I got on a plane yesterday just to see you. I landed in Korea this morning. Not some nearby province—I crossed the entire Pacific Ocean. You really think telling someone who flew twelve hours for you to just leave is the right thing to say?"

"Just go. It’s late."
Haewon punched in the door code, unlocking the door. He left Jaemin standing there, staring incredulously, and walked inside, shutting the door behind him.
Outside, he could hear the faint sounds of someone pacing in frustration, but soon, they disappeared. Haewon knew Jaemin well enough—his pride wouldn’t allow him to knock or press the doorbell.

Haewon tossed his clothes onto the bed and went straight to the bathroom. Standing under the hot shower, he let the heat melt away the cold that had settled into his bones. The tension in his muscles unraveled, his body relaxing.
After finishing his shower, he pulled on a shirt and pants, rubbing his damp hair with a towel. He tore open a packet of instant soup and placed it in the microwave, pressing the automatic cook button before turning away—just as the doorbell rang.
He glanced at the intercom screen, expecting to see anyone but Jaemin.

But there he was, standing in front of the tightly shut door.
Jaemin wasn’t the type to plead for entry, and Haewon wasn’t the type to appreciate such behavior. He hadn’t even felt strongly about him before, but at this moment, he suddenly, genuinely, disliked him.
"…Haah."

A sigh escaped his lips.
He ignored Jaemin completely and remained in front of the microwave.
The doorbell continued to ring relentlessly for the full two minutes it took for the soup to finish cooking.

Everything about this night was irritating.
But more than Jaemin’s unwanted visit, what frustrated Haewon most was Taeshin’s suicide.
Haewon put on his headphones. He searched for Lorin Maazel’s recent DVD performance and played it at maximum volume.

He pulled the steaming soup from the microwave, sat at the table, and scooped a spoonful into his mouth while listening to Wagner, conducted by the New York Philharmonic under Maazel.
And then—
A firm grip landed on Haewon’s shoulder.

Startled, he turned his head.
Standing there was the officetel security guard—and Kim Jaemin.
Jaemin reached out, forcefully yanking the headphones off Haewon’s head.

"What the hell? I thought something had actually happened! You went in, but you didn’t answer—do you know how that looked? I really thought something had gone wrong this time."
"What is this?"
Haewon stood up, looking displeased, his eyes shifting toward the security guard.

"I’m relieved. I really thought something serious might have happened. This gentleman said he was the older brother of 2205, so…"
The security guard looked at Haewon’s expression—clearly unimpressed—but pretended not to notice, giving a small nod before stepping out.
Jaemin shrugged as if it was nothing.

As if he had done something clever. As if he had just made some amusing joke.
Haewon grabbed his headphones back from Jaemin’s hand. The faint sounds of Wagner still leaked from them.
"What the hell do you think you’re doing?"

"I had no choice since you weren’t answering. It’s freezing outside, and you seriously expected me to just leave? Why are you acting so difficult today?"
"Get out."
"This place is bigger than I expected. You must’ve spent quite a bit to get it. With what you earn, I doubt you could afford the rent here. Your family must be well off, huh?"

He spoke as if he were genuinely curious.
Haewon’s job didn’t pay enough for him to afford such a high-end officetel in central Seoul.
But the bigger question was—

How had he gotten in?
This wasn’t a place where you could just walk in by paying off the guards. The security team was made up of former private security professionals or people with extensive training.
"A hundred-dollar bill wouldn’t cut it, so I gave them ten. Even then, they hesitated, so I emptied my entire wallet for them. Cost me about four thousand dollars just to get that door open."

"Get out."
"I don’t remember doing anything wrong. Did I mess up somehow? Make a mistake?"
For the first time, the amusement disappeared from Jaemin’s face. His brows furrowed, his lips pressed into a tight line.

He looked more serious than he ever had while producing an album.
"I told you to leave. And instead of listening, you broke into my apartment. How the hell am I supposed to welcome you? I wasn’t happy to see you in the first place."
"I called you a hundred times. Knowing you, if you were tired of me, you [N O V E L I G H T] would’ve told me straight-up. You would’ve said you were over it, that you were done. But you didn’t. So I assumed something had happened. Once the thought crossed my mind, I couldn’t stop imagining the worst. I’m serious, Haewon. I came because I was worried."

Jaemin explained himself calmly, showing concern and affection.
But to Haewon, it didn’t matter.
All he saw was an intruder who had forced his way inside his home.

Running a tired hand through his damp hair, Haewon sighed.
"Fine. You saw me. I’m alive. Now get out."
"I thought we were closer than this. Do you know how hard it was to push for you as the main soloist on that album? Do you think it was easy for me?"

"Ah."
A laugh—part amusement, part disbelief—escaped Haewon’s lips.
Jaemin’s brow twitched at the sound.

"Don’t tell me you actually think I slept with you just to land that solo."
Haewon asked, genuinely curious.
Jaemin didn’t answer.

He must have, at least on some level, believed that the solo had been a form of compensation.
"Wow. That’s some confidence you’ve got."
"What?"

Haewon turned off the still-playing headphones and set them on the table. Picking up his soup bowl, he moved to the sofa and sat down, eating as if Jaemin wasn’t even there.
"I never wanted that solo bad enough to sell my body for it."
It wasn’t an empty statement.

Haewon had never in his life wanted something so badly that he would sacrifice himself for it.
Not once had he ever known the feeling of desperate desire.